We need to talk
“We need to talk.”
Meh! She should have chosen a better dialogue. These words seem to be straight up from some melodramatic daily soap. A euphemism for “We have serious problems that needed to be sorted out this very instant or else our marriage is surely doomed.” So, if I assume that I am a character in that soap, my reply should be a “Sure, honey!” Probably I should be poker-faced and my voice should have undertones of concern. After all, this scenario only happens in my head. When will that day finally come when she’ll utter these words?
Staring into the mirror with the toothpaste foam flooding from my mouth, I appeared to be the prototype of what you’d end up calling miserable. Not in the cute miserable street puppy way. More like the miserable junkie who’d probably hack you to death for your gold chain. Sunken eyed, ashen-faced, twitchy handed, disheveled, groggy miserable junkie. Did you ever notice that your bathroom mirror is often sprayed with your spit? I noticed it today. So, I cleaned the bathroom mirrors. Once I saw the mirrors sparkly and devoid of any spit sprays, my focus zoomed into the scaly debris on the faucets. After that, I felt the tiles needed some brightening. So, I ended up cleaning the entire bathroom. And then, I resumed the dead-eyed stare into the newly sparkling mirror till there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door.
“Ravi, I need to take a shower. It’s 7:30 man! I am already late.” Pallavi’s knocks got slightly angrier. I got out and then it dawned on me that I didn’t even take a shower.
“Are you sleepwalking or what? Aren’t you going to the office again?”
“I’ll work from home. I’ll call and tell them that I’m sick.”
“Whatever. Stay at home and get the kitchen plumbing done. At least today for heaven’s sake.”
The bathroom door was slammed in my face. Today’s husband and wife conversation quota got over. I proceeded to do my current project which has been to play Counterstrike for over 10 hours. The end point of this project would probably be that moment when Pallavi would seek divorce on grounds of my gaming addiction. Not still there yet. Regardless, I’d want you to know that I’ve made great progress. I spent an entire night playing counter strike and I didn’t even take a pee break for 8 hours.
I have been working hard on finding a way to not be a ‘Yes’ man anymore at work. The outcome of being a “Yes” man hasn’t been spectacular, to say the least. Despite working hard for fourteen hours a day, six days a week for two years, I didn’t even get that goddamn promotion. Some fellow from the headquarters grabbed it two days ago. Don’t you dare think I love my job because of the hours I’d put in! I was solely focused on the promotion so that I’d have some extra dough to splurge on shit I don’t even need.
I haven’t told Pallavi about this. Not that I think she’d care. It’s just that I need a day or two to be able to say it out loud and not start tearing up inside. I spent my last two years solely focused on the work I loathed, hoping that there’d be some rewards for all the toiling. Nah!
The one good about this debacle is that I’ve come to notice how frail my marriage is. If I’d been promoted, the crumbling marriage situation could have easily crept under the blanket. Two years ago, my family found Pallavi as the perfect solution for the then perennially single me. She was educated, employed, perfectly tall with heels, had the perfect family pleasing gait, was photogenic and managed to win my family’s heart. Doesn’t it drive you bonkers when you see someone so perfect? It drove me. I tried all I could to unearth some old dirt that could prove me that she’s flawed like everyone else is and not the perfect girl my parents presume her to be. I have been very unsuccessful. So, instead what I’ve managed to do is neglect her by immersing myself in work. Neglect is that which brought out her sleeping demons to waltz with me. She began morphing from the soft-spoken Pallavi to the razor-tongued one. Her remarks though few were always acrimonious.
*
“We need to talk.”
Seeing her text message a while later was such a relief because finally we’d get talking like normal people and could probably save ourselves from getting divorced. According to some study, talking is what gets the marriage going.
I had been making great progress in Counterstrike till the doorbell and my mobile phone began buzzing in a chorus.
“I was ringing the bell for the past five minutes. Why haven’t you showered yet? And did you call the plumber?”
“Sorry, I got caught up in work. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
“Ravi, did you get the plumbing done?”
She was one of those species who could conjure tension out of thin air and scare me.
“No. I’ll get it done in a while. You wanted to talk?”
“Get the plumbing done first. Then I’ll think of whether to talk or not.” Her tone was very grave and there was a chilling vibe about her.
Damn! I should have reminded myself to get that bloody plumbing done. Calling the plumber was a futile exercise, as his phone was switched off. I had no option but to do it myself.
After two hours and numerous YouTube videos later, I managed to fix the leaky kitchen faucet. She had been sitting on the couch the entire time with her legs crossed on the coffee table. I brewed some coffee and began stirring in sugar. One per cup, maybe two would do. Little too much sugar is what the situation ordered.
I entered the hall donning a TV commercial perfect husband avatar only to see her teary eyed. She was trying her level best to control her sobs. A cup of coffee each for Mr and Mrs.
“What’s bothering you dear?”
“I want to tell you something.” She was trying her level best to not let the quiver in her voice recognizable. She wanted to sound as impassive as if she was reading a newspaper article about some gorillas in a zoo somewhere in Germany. But her bloodshot glistening eyes were telling me a different story instead.
“Please. Go ahead. Even I have to tell you something.” I was doing a good job holding a poker face. But I could feel my heart thumping against my chest wall as if someone was throwing my heart like a cricket ball onto the wall, waiting for it to bounce on and off the wall.
“I wish you’d caught me.”
“Catch you for what?”
“I have been cheating on you for the past six months.”
“Shall I reserve a table for us at Popeye’s? It’s been so long since we’ve gone out for a dinner.”
“Ravi, please listen to me carefully. I’ve been cheating on you for the past 6 months.”
“I just can’t find their number on my phone. Did you book the table last time, Pallavi? I think you did. Give me your phone.”
I had to book a table. But first I have to find their number. Popeye’s. Maybe I should search on Zomato. It’s a working day. Maybe, we could do without a reservation. But, it is important that we talk, as husband and wife, over a peaceful dinner. If it’s a dinner that saves us, so be it. Why is my heart thumping so violently? Why is everything whirling around me, making me queasy? Pallavi was telling something. Communication is everything. That’s what all those relationship experts say, don’t they?
“You were telling me something. Say it again, please.”
“I….I had an affair with another man.”
“Do you want me to kill him? Baby, all you have to do is tell me what you want. Ravi is there, idly sitting at home prepared to handle any scum anyone brings! Or do you want me to….” all I could see was the throbbing veins in her neck and the keys on the coffee table.
“RAVI, PLEASE DROP THE KEYS! I AM SO SORRY.I AM SORRY RAVI.I AM SORRY.PLEASE…PLEASE DROP THE KEYS.” She started screaming hysterically and her bulbous eyes seemed to almost pop out from her face in fear.
This is what she has been up to. Perfect. I was spiraling into the vortex of nothingness while she was too busy cheating on me. First, after two years of donkey work and being a doormat I don’t even get a promotion I deserved. Now, even she manages to supersede me.
Of all deeds, why choose the infidelity route? Was there any light at the end of the infidelity tunnel? Why? Why?
“Why?” I managed to croak before I flopped next to her on the couch. The coffee I gulped began refluxing from my stomach, my legs were becoming like overcooked pasta and I couldn’t really move.
“I don’t know. I am sorry. I really don’t know. Please don’t kill me…” and she continued her wailing.
What do I do now? Do I behave like a good cop and get all the details of her affair out? But, what difference it makes knowing who it was? The next dialogue ideally should be “With whom?” if I was in a TV serial. The smell of coffee still wafted in the air. Pleasant happy couple coffee smells began mingling with the stench of infidelity.
“With whom?” I broke character and now my poker face began contorting into a fuming emoticon face. I could feel rage seething at the tip of my nose ready to echo out.
“A colleague of mine. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t control. I broke off with him. I am so sorry…” and she continued another episode of her turbulent sobs.
“Do you want a divorce?”
I got back into the character of the perfect understanding husband.
She hugged me and continued her sobbing saga. I could feel every cell in my body repulsing when she touched me. I sat there staring at the coffee table whose glass needed some cleaning.
I began to feel as if I was posing for a painting. Life was painting the scene “The repenting wife”. At first glance, it would appear as if the hapless husband is trying to make sense of the unfortunate event that just transpired. The wife pleading for forgiveness. Try staring into the husband’s face and you could possibly see a tinge of remorse on his face. This particular husband was adept at neglecting his wife because he felt she was too perfect for him. The wife was consumed by the guilt of an extra-marital affair.
An hour or so had passed and we were still on the couch, statuesque as if we were carved in stone.
“I need some air. Can we go for a drive?”
She looked at me with a stunned look as if she heard what the voice in my head just said. Be that TV villain husband and just drive your car off into a fuel tanker and allow the camera some glorious combustion before the closing credits.
*
It was 11:30 p.m. I was sitting in my car in the parking lot staring at the dashboard when suddenly a tune on the stereo grappled my attention. The singer’s swelling contralto began hypnotizing me.
“You hate your job; you ain’t got good sleep,
Don’t worry baby, as everyone just da same,
I know you had your worst day,
But in this dog eat dog world,
There’s no escape and no excuse,
Baby just suck up and be nice,
Lalalala…Just be nice.”
Let that singer screw up their marriage by being a douchebag and then sing this same song with the exact same infectious tune.
Did I really deserve what I get? Maybe in the past two years, I might have been a little too absent, maybe I took our marriage for granted. But is this how your partner should retaliate? Should your partner get down with another man just for the sake of revenge?
“Lalalala, Just be nice, baby, baby, just be nice”
I could hear my own squawky voice humming out these lyrics. Maybe I just have to suck up all the muck and be nice. Maybe I just have to take her out for a fancy dinner. Maybe I just have to get her favorite dim sums from that Chinese takeout near the football ground. Maybe a weekend getaway. You know, do something rather than do nothing. Just be nice.
If you ask me is it’s easy to let go of the rage bottling up in me, then you surely need to be skinned and tossed into scalding water. Of course, doofus, it is really hard. But, like it or not, isn’t it the only practical way out? Isn’t it easier to fix something with superglue rather than go out to the market and buy the same thing?